God's Avenger
by Punisherette
Summary: I was reading Born the other day, and I don't think it some dark entity that rapped at his chamber door.
1. Chapter 1

It's funny how people interpret God nowadays, like God is some mellow cosmic being wanting people to love each other, seeing him as an all powerful hippie. Or have people go around proclaiming in His name that gays are responsible for the deaths of soldiers. Both views go in different directions of what God is. Don't get me wrong. God can be loving, and He loves His creations, but He can also be vengeful. Especially to those who do wrong to undeserving people. He has the angels for a reason, a valid reason, to protect His people on a preternatural plane of existence. They are winged soldiers, remember, and not fluffy, overfed cherubs on a Hallmark card. They were created for battle, for defending.

I should know. I am Michael, the foremost of God's angelic host. For theological reasons, we angels can't interfere with the realm of man. Neither can God. So on occasion, when times are dark, a mortal is blessed -or cursed as some may see it-with the darker aspect of God. If you doubt God has a dark side, go read the Old Testament. It's full of infanticides and other nasty deeds that I don't particularly agree with.

But I'm wandering off the path that I intended to tread. As I said, we angels are not supposed to interfere with assuring that true justice is achieved for those people who slip through the cracks, the ones who cry out for help...but are refused the blood debt due them by circumstances beyond ordinary control. Fate, corrupt officials...whatever the case may be.

There were a few people touched by the war grace of God: St. Joan of Arc, Roland. Now, Frank Castle. He owned a strength almost unheard of, and an inability to compromise on what was right and wrong. That fascinated me. He fascinated me.

I reached out to him during the Firebase Valley Forge camp-and gave him what he needed to survive. I found a will in him, like steel, to do what was needed when others lacked morality and true grit. In short, when a warrior who saw life in terms of black and white arose, with a firm vision on how to treat people who took violent advantage of others. By treating those with the edge of a sharp sword and put a permanent end to their villainy. To my way of thinking, the second a human raises his hand against another in a deliberately cruel manner, they lose their soul and humanity.

What? You thought darkness had claimed his soul? Hardly. Lucifer wants evil people to live, to spread their corruption through untouched souls, to harvest more in time. Lucifer is all about the long run, and he's willing to wait.

No one is safe from his malevolent taint. Not even the priests that are to uphold His ideals and give guidance and succor to His flock.

Which brings me to the present day:

Brooklyn, New York City

11 PM.


	2. Chapter 2

DISCLAIMER: Although I'm not going to be explicit, only mentioned briefly, this story is dealing with controversial issues such as abuse in the Catholic Church. If you object to the subject matter, please do not read. Thank you.

The night bit deep into the skin on Frank's exposed neck. It was winter in Brooklyn, and he smelled snow on the way. He'd been out gathering intel on his next target, a branch of the Gnuccis who were heading back into town to reclaim their territory. Apparently, the Gnuccis thought they had enough hired muscle to brave coming back to New York City. He was going to have to re-educate them and he didn't mind another chance to rid the world of more scumbags. Hell, they were even coming to him, making it all the more convenient for Frank. He wouldn't even have to travel. Just meticulously plan the mission, take note of the number of men, stock up on weapons and ammo, then shoot to kill.

He walked his way through the soulless streets of the morally rotten city, back to his lair. Every step was ponderous yet surprisingly light. Frank moved quickly, especially for a man of his size, in his weathered trench coat. Catching an odd movement out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a teenager try to hang himself. Frank needed to hurry if he wanted to save a life, which wasn't normally in his job description. He took a knife and threw it with enough force and precision to cut the rope. Again, that kind of knife throwing wasn't something he did on a regular basic..he just did it out of necessity. The boy hit the cement like a bag of potatoes, and it was a good thing he was no more than four feet in the air.

The kid couldn't be more than fourteen, Frank thought. He examined the unconscious boy at his feet, then knelt down to take vitals. There was a rope burn across the neck, consistent with self hanging. Didn't break his neck. He noticed the how strong the pulse beat as if he were determined to live. Frank took note of how his eyes rolled under his eyelids. In Frank's professional opinion, the kid would pull through. After the kid woke up, then Frank would ask him questions. Such as why he tried to kill himself in the alley near the cathedral.

The Punisher lifted the tousled tow headed boy and took him to a place where the boy could recover in warmth. It wasn't his lair, but a nearby flophouse. He knew the owner, who was grateful Frank killed street scum, and the man let the vigilante use the janitor's room.

It bothered him that a young man tried to off himself and no one but Frank helped him. It wasn't his job to do this, it should have been an ordinary citizen. /The city is dark and rife with corruption, full of people who simply don't give a fuck about anyone other than themselves./

A startled gasp filled the room as the rescued teenager came back to the land of the living to feel the heavy eyes of the Punisher inexorably bore into him, drilling into his soul to learn what the old man wanted to know.


	3. Chapter 3

"I didn't do anything wrong, man. Please don't kill me." The words came out with a harsh edge to them, possibly because of the attempted hanging. The kid recognized the big man right away, as light from the streetlamp made the skull on Frank's shirt startlingly white. White like the priest's robes. White like innocence.

"I'm not here to kill you, but I want to know why you tried to hang yourself. Near a church." The Punisher tossed the kid a bottle of water to ease his throat. He took a seat on a chair that seemed to have seen better days, an ominous creak filled the room. The kid wouldn't be surprised if the chair gave way underneath the vigilante's weight. What did he weigh? Three hundred pounds of muscle? The big man crossed his arms and that obscured the skull enough to give the boy a chance to calm down.

The Punisher said, as he saw the teen was reticent to start. "Your name? I've heard that's a good place to begin."

"My name's Marc Simpson and ..." Marc faltered with the steady gaze of Frank on him. What if he told and the Punisher found him guilty? Like when the priest said this was all Marc's fault and that if he ever talked to an adult about what happened in the confessional that Marc would be go to hell. Marc didn't want to be touched by the Father anymore and if he was going to hell anyway, he decided he wanted to go there sooner than later. Just no...MORE. He thought he wanted to die, but now he wasn't so sure about that. "I... don't think... ...Listen, Punisher, I did something wrong and that's why ...I'm bad. I tempted a..."

Frank's eyes narrowed and suddenly the gun in his underarm holster jabbed him in the armpit. His instinct was telling him the kid wasn't bullshitting, he had learned to decipher body language, and a cold rage began to spread in his mind. He hadn't felt that fury in some time, and he knew more than a few people would lose their lives because of what happened to this kid But most of all, he hated those who used their positions of power and trust to take advantage of other people.

"He told me that I'd go directly to hell for telling anyone. I just didn't want him anywhere near me, so I thought if I'm going to hell, I'd rather go there now." Marc's blue eyes studied him. The Punisher was as scary as the Daily Bugel said, maybe even more so, because the man had at least a few working brain cells. He'd always thought Marines were rather lacking in the intelligence department. Marc saw a bright glimmer of a mind capable of constructing . "But I don't want to die. Are you going to shoot me?"

"Don't be stupid. You didn't ask for it, regardless of what that fuck says. How long?"

Marc was stumped. How long? How long what? "Oh...for years. I can't remember how old I was when it started, but around six. It wasn't continuous. Off and on."

Frank did not like the sound of that, because it indicated that the pedophile had more victims that he 'visited' in the confessional. Yes, he decided, there would be blood split. A lot of it. To him, it didn't make a difference that a priest did this, who was just another piece of shit that deserved punishment.

The man leaned forward to tell Marc, "This is what you're going to do. Go home. Tell your parents what happened. Go talk to your school counselor. " He stood up and gestured for Marc to follow him. It was time for the kid to leave. He heard enough information to assure himself that this punishment had been a long time in coming. He needed to head back to his lair and plan out this mission, making sure to equip plenty of ammo and guns. Do some research on the layout of the church, and talk to a priest he had been in seminary with until Frank dropped out.

He nodded at owner and tossed him a twenty, from the depths of his trench coat. It fluttered in the air until it came to rest on the desk before the motel owner. "Call this kid a cab. It's too goddamned late for him to be in this neighborhood." Especially with the hookers out in force tonight, he thought, as he watched a car pull away from the curb after a trashy dressed woman jumped inside.

"Yes sir." The owner said. Yeah, Frank had helped clean up this part of Brooklyn...except for the prostitutes, who made up a good deal of his clientele. He dialed the phone and kept the impressionable fourteen year old from staring out the window at the women who plied their trade.

Marc turned, wanting to thank Frank for saving his life, but the man had already left.

The hotel owner shrugged. "He's good at that. C'mon, kid. Your cab is here."


	4. Chapter 4

Father Peter DiMaggio finished with assisting Enrico Gnucci as they counted out the money. He had connections with the Italian branch of the Gnucci family-who had wanted to reclaim their territory- and they were working on not only laundering their dirty money, but also helping them establish citizenship here. They had devised a way to be virtually undetected, using many different avenues to obtain citizenship here and regain the power they had lost after the Punisher decimated the American branch of the Gnuccis. Some of those avenues were even legal.

In return for his financial and social assistance, their Consigliere made whatever little problems of his that dared to rear their heads...simply disappear. No fuss. No blood on the good Father's hands. Besides, he was able to intimidate most of the little farts into staying quiet. Promises of hell did wonders, even in this day and age of the ever encroaching threat of atheism.

He sneered at the thought of the children. Like most people of his particular ...problem, some would say fatal disease, he did it for the feeling of complete power. He liked having the power to make people fear him, gave him some peace at the end of the day. He took some pride in his priestly calling, knowing that with but a few carefully placed words, he could make the faithful weep in the confessional. Mostly over a thought or deed that he thought didn't even merit worrying over.

/Some people just want to feel the cut of the 'whip' into their back. They want to feel horrible. It's my job to make them feel bad, and give them a chance at salvation./

It was safe to say that the good Father didn't believe in God; he had given up that thought a long time ago when he was a lad, crying out to him for help from when... Never mind. That happened forty years ago. It was his time to have the power, to be in control, to inflict on others what had been done to him.

If he were to be honest with himself, he was just in this profession for the ...intangible perks because being a priest didn't pay that well. Not with the years he spent in seminary, getting a PhD in Theology. He took a deep breath as he put what he was working on aside and pondered which of his children he'd visit next.

/Marc? No. He's too old, old enough to start talking. Better leave him alone now. Maybe have Enrico arrange an accident. Yes, that would be best./ Peter massaged his temples, made ill by his thoughts, but not quite sickened enough to stop. He couldn't. This was a compulsion, driving him to do ungodly things. He liked doing what he did, but at the same time...part of him held a high degree of disgust.

He rose from his desk, moving swiftly in his black frock. He swept down the impeccably clean hallways of his rectory, out a side door, and into the courtyard. He headed toward his room, a quiet sanctuary from the hectic mess that was his life. Father Peter knew what he needed, he needed to punish himself, to still the chaos that whirled in his mind. He needed to practise mortification of the flesh. He closed the heavy oak door and shoved the steel lock into place. He sighed, feeling secure that he was, indeed, alone. He didn't bother glancing around

Father Peter removed his garb, and kicked the cloth aside. He stood in the cold air, dressed in modest boxers. He found a whip, saved only for himself, in his nightstand. He fumbled with the smooth leather. He cracked his whip, and it made a sharp noise. /A good noise./ He thought to himself.

He whipped himself, across the belly and legs, until welts rose up on his skin, painful and raw. He cried out a few times in anguished joy, both loving and hating the hurt that he caused himself. Mortification of the flesh, purifying his body of sins.

The older man felt the slick, cold metal of a gun against his neck. "Hmmm. I should make you whip yourself until you bleed and confess to everything that you have done to the children entrusted to your care."


	5. Chapter 5

DISCLAIMER: Due to multiple negative spam reviews, I no longer accept anonymous reviews. If you don't like my story, fine. That would actually benefit me as a writer if you don't. I just want you to a) keep it civil with no profanity b) use correct grammar if you are going to correct mine and c) make it constructive. In other words, don't be a troll. Any review that isn't compliant with the above criteria will be banished to the black hole of the internet. Also, the other Marvel character has been completely retooled for the Marvel Knights universe this story is in. EDIT: I wasn't happy with the formatting, so I corrected it.

The priest shuddered. The voice was heavy, full of dread and doom. The voice of his judge, jury and executioner. Or maybe it was his conscious brought to life, the part of him who hated what he did and wanted nothing more to stop. "Who...who are you?"

The barrel of the gun poked him even harder in the back of the neck. "I think you can guess. " Frank said, darkly. Tempted though he was just to shoot the old bugger in the back of the head, execution style, he had something better and more painful in mind. A bullet was just too easy of a way for him to leave this world. He didn't have enough faith to believe there was a hell, the passing of life was a black nothingness that enveloped people like the endless dark of space. At least, that was what Frank hoped. The absence of life meant the absence of pain.

The Punisher put his booted foot on the priest's ass and gave him a good kick, sending a flurry of black robes to the floor. The Father landed with a thunk but managed to glance up to see a stark white skull. Then the immense shape of the man appeared in sharp relief against the wall. "It's ..you."

"Who did you think I was, Jesus? Sorry to break it to you, but Jesus died. " Frank muttered. His finger touched the trigger, a hair's breadth from pulling it. Then he holstered his 1911, the weight of the gun reassuring in a crazy world. He saw the look of relief and puzzlement flash in the priest's eyes. "I wouldn't be relieved if I were you. I don't care if you're a man of God, I know what you did to that boy and you're going to pay him back in blood. And for all the others that you sinned against. I know there were others because men like you can't help but be predators. We're going to have a little talk."

Father DiMaggio ran a hand across his brow, sweat gleamed briefly like stars. "Then what is your intention here tonight, my son? Have you come for absolution for your own sins?" Father DiMaggio thought he could appeal to whatever remained of a good Catholic inside Frank.

"Don't call me that. Your son.'" Frank spat out those last two words. . "I know about Marc. You know about what I do. That's why I'm here." He grimaced in revulsion; the priest shivered like a worm in those robes that were supposed to represent holy authority and love. This man tainted innocence.

"I did it for..."

"Don't give me that shit, Father." The Punisher grabbed him roughly and threw him over to the plain, cheap phone that looked like it came from a dollar store. It rested on a nightstand that had seen better days, oh, roughly about a hundred years ago. Worn and tired, it reminded Frank much of the priest who had now turned visibly grey, like cremated ashes. He changed his mind about keeping the priest alive. The man was dangerous and cunning; the Punisher could see the vileness in the Father's eyes. He withdrew the 1911 and took aim at the crumpled priest.

/I am in serious trouble I am in serious trouble I am in serious trouble I am in serious trouble/ was the solitary hymn in the corrupted priest's mind. It rang through his veins, making his adrenaline surge. His mind whispered to say anything that might prolong his life until the Gnuccis came for their weekly 'confessional'. While the Punisher and those greasy knuckleheads killed each other, the priest would be able to make good an escape. Then put in for a transfer to the Vatican.

"If you kill me now, I can't tell you about the young woman deep in the Church's cellar." The priest felt the Punisher's eyes go predator bright.

"Where is she?"

Rogue dreams:

She sat at the end of the dock, kicking her feet into the cool water. Her fingers tickled the top of the pond and she watched the sun reflect off of it, refracting into many shards of light. The water felt good, felt refreshing, against the humid heat of the day. The young girl watched as two birds flew by, as they engaged in a courtship flight and singing their song of love. In her youthful innocence, she reveled in the beauty and wonder of what life had to offer.

She often came here to escape the yelling and fighting between her mother and stepfather, her eight-year old mind unable to understand why they fought so. Their fights usually ended up with her stepfather dragging her into the debacle, either emotionally or physically. Her mind drifted back a few hours to go over what happened in an effort to make sense of what happened.

The girl remembered what he said earlier that day, right before she came here, his brutish looks becoming even more sullen. ~Your daughter is good fer nothin'–can' even wash the dishes right. Good fer NOTHIN!~

Her mama had replied, feisty as a badger, her own voice raising several octaves. ~She's only eight, for christsake. Lorelai is jus' a child! How much do you `xpect her to do? At least she tries!~

He grunted. ~Not hard enough, Charlene. That girl of yours needs discipline.~ He finished off his bottle of beer. His fourth, by Lorelai's count. She feared him most after he had a six-pack of beer; he was what her mama called a mean drunk. She trembled as she hid in her favorite hiding place, behind the couch. ~Woman, get me another beer. Now!~

~Curtis Leroy Williams, Ah think you've had quite enough. `Sides, you're almost out. And we have jus' enough money to last `til next Friday; Ah won' be wastin' it on your booze. Ah've got a daughter to feed. ~ Lorelai watched as her petite mama stood up to the hulking brute and saw him hit her with a force that knocked her mother to thefloor. Blood poured from the woman's nose, staining the gray carpet with crimson blooms.

She tore out from her hiding space. ~Mama, are ya okay?~ Lorelai knelt by her mother's still form, tears running down her face. Lorelai hovered over her mother and hoped that she was all right. Prayed that her mother still lived.

~Lorelai, please leave the house while Curtis and Ah have... a conversation. Please, jus' do it an' don' ask questions.~ Charlene's delicate face started to blossom with vivid hues of purple and blue. She hated that her young daughter saw any of this altercation; God knew how emotionally scarred Lorelai must be already. Charlene believed in her heart that she let her daughter down because she was unable to protect her in so many ways. She regretted subjecting Lorelai to Curtis's brutality and drunkenness. Regretted marrying him. ~Leave, Lorelai! No matter what happens, Lorelai, remember that Ah love ya.~

~Love ya, too.~ Lorelai bolted out of the house and toward her safe abode, by the creek.

When the sun started to set, Lorelai decided it might be safe enough to venture near the house. She snuck closer to the door, timidly peeking over the windowsill. Her mother was crying while her step- father continued to yell at her.

Their discordant arguments always wounded her deeply, down to her soul. She wanted to confide to her mother what he liked to do to her in private–she knew that it wasn't right no matter what HE said. But Lorelai was afraid he'd hurt both her and her mother so she kept her mouth shut. Perhaps wisely.

She was about to come in when Charlene pulled out the old sawed off shotgun from the closet. Charlene discerned, beforehand, that he had his shotgun loaded at all times. ~Curtis, Ah'm not gonna let you hurt mah daughter or me anymore. Ah have seen what you done to mah baby. And Ah can' take no more!~ Charlene pulled the trigger and the impact of the discharge took Curtis directly in the chest.

Lorelai would remember the shock on his florid face as he registered the fact that he was going to die. She watched as his body fought to reject the inevitable truth. When his death throes came upon him, she started to cry. Out of relief or sadness, she couldn't tell.

The young girl went in, despite the admonition given. Her mother was crumpled on the floor, holding onto the shotgun as if it were the last lifesaver on Earth. ~Lorelai, come here. Don' know when the police will get here but Ah wanted you to have this.~ She took off a gold locket and placed it around Lorelai's neck. ~It has the only picture of your true father in it. God, Ah loved that charmin' rogue.~

Lorelai opened it and glanced at a face not so different than hers. Just a more masculine one. She closed it and looked at her mother's beloved, battered face. ~Mama, does it hurt to love?~

~Yeah, it does. Promise me you'll nevah let anyone get close enough to hurt ya. Learn from mah mistakes. Don' trust men, `specially charmin' ones. Ah think if your father had lived long `nough and not died in that brawl... It might have worked. But don' count on it.~ Charlene hugged her hard.

~Ah promise, Mama. ~ They heard sirens coming up the drive and Charlene knew the cops were going to try to take her. She would never give herself up.

~Go outside and don' come back inside. Ah mean it.~ Charlene knew it would be the last time she'd ever see her daughter. ~Ah love ya.~

Lorelai frowned; something was wrong with her mother. ~Love ya.~

She stepped out of the house, immediately placed into the backseat of a cop's car. A female officer, tall and ice-blonde, gave her a teddy bear, to comfort her. ~We'll try to make sure your mother's all right.~ Her partner, a man, attempted to calm Charlene.

Just then, her mother raised the shotgun and fired toward the officers. ~Ah can' live Curtis' blood on mah hands but Ah won' have mah daughter visit me in prison.~ The shell entered the female cop's leg. She screamed, ignoring her injury, and drew her own gun, firing at Charlene. The male police officer followed suit, placing his body before the car, protecting Lorelai.

~MAMA!~ Lorelai pounded on the window of the car. The first bullet entered Charlene's head , blood and gray matter exploding out the back of her skull. ~NOOOOO!~ At that point, Lorelai lost conscious–the whole day too much for her to take.

In her bed, Rogue started screaming, the pain of all those long-forgotten memories rising to the surface. Her screams were the sound of soul-tearing agony.


	6. Chapter 6

Bury all your secrets in my skin  
>Come away with innocence, and leave me with my sins<br>The air around me still feels like a cage  
>And love is just a camouflage for what resembles rage again...<p>

-Slipknot, Snuff Lyrics by Corey Taylor

The priest fervently hoped that his cohorts would show up before the Punisher could release the troubled young woman. He knew that she was called a mutant. People-real people- called her kind at best a mistake and a demon at worst. From what the Father was told, her so called talent was to steal a person's memory and essence. After talking to her, he truly believed she could steal souls, and that made her a demon to him. /Maybe others were simply misguided. They thought they could use her, steal bank account information, even kill others. I hope they decide to kill her; she's too dangerous to keep around./

She fought them tooth and nail. Her fury was exactly why she was currently locked up in a small box, no bigger than a coffin. Enrico Gnucci told Rogue that she would stay in there until she did agree to cooperate with their plans. So far, no luck, but she had been getting weaker and he knew that she would give in sooner rather than later.

The Father heard Frank's question and analyzed it. He knew exactly what to say. "She's in a small room just off the cellar…" He found himself in the air, feet scrambling for solid purchase, and the Punisher thrust him into the hall. Long, cold and deserted. The other priests were amongst the parish community tonight, helping distribute groceries to the most vulnerable. That was why the rectory, usually bustling with measured activity, seemed deserted. The priest caught a glance of the clock on the wall. 5:30. Thirty more minutes before his company would show up and-hopefully-kill this asshole.

"Take me there. One word, one misstep….well, if I were you, I'd hurry up before I think of something creative to speed you up." The Punisher's voice echoed the calmness of a storm before the full fury hit.

So the priest led him down the hallway and toward a spiral staircase, which gave a little under Frank's weight but didn't cave. His broad shoulders barely fit as they paralleled the width of the stairs. The dark robes ahead of him gracefully mirrored the priest's movements, and the priest risked a glance back at him. The burning cold of Castle's blue eyes spurred him on and he kept quiet.

The priest stopped, pulled a keychain out and pointed toward the door. "She's in ...there. Look, she's…" He paused. He didn't want to let Frank know that Rogue was a mutant and dangerous because, with any luck, she'd kill him.

Frank poked him in the neck with the cold barrel of the gun. "She's what?"

He gulped. "She's…generally…out of it. I don't know what she's been given, but it knocks her out."

Frank felt his body harden and tense with anger. He wondered why she was kept doped up, but figured he'd keep his suppositions to himself for the time being. "You first, God boy." He told the priest to enter the room and unlock the box that held the young woman.

She lay slumped in the box, green eyes dulled like unpolished jade. Most people would have been a lovely woman, except for that slack of expression. Her skin was pale and Frank, with a clinical detachment, leaned over to test for a pulse. It was habit more than anything that made him do it. The woman did not look well; she had the glaze of someone on drugs. And somehow, he didn't think it was her doing. People were going to

As soon as his skin touched hers, he felt as if his testicles were being pulled out of his body by way of his nostrils. He sagged to his knees as the pain receded and numbness took over. He didn't know how to describe what he was experiencing, other than to say what he was, the essence of who he was, seemed to be slipping away.

He watched as the woman jerked into some form of alertness. Her eyes went wide, turned from green to glacier-blue, and screamed, "Maria!" Those hands of hers, slender, turned into talons as she scratched at her shirt. Nails clawed, leaving red marks above her t-shirt.

/Where I was shot./ He realized that she was reliving his memories somehow and that the pain she was going through was his fault, not hers. /Poor girl./ He did not have the time or energy to wonder how this was happening. Time enough later for that, he hoped. Frank was unable to feel anything. Not pain, nor anger, or happiness. Just a soft blanket of utter greyness, lost in blissful apathy.

Though he was barely conscious, he figured out this was why someone must have wanted her. Just for her ability to siphon memories, this young woman would make a powerful weapon. He watched as she fell to the floor—hard. If he were able, sympathy for her would have shot through him. He knew she was caught in the rictus of his memories.

"HIS BRAINS CAME OUT IN MY HANDS!" Rogue screamed with an agony that Frank remembered, but couldn't feel. Her heels dug into the floor and she arched her back, fighting past pain. She writhed on the floor, then went still. Her chest rose and fell with harsh cries. "Lisa, Maria. Frankie…failed you." She cried like that for several minutes, lost and confused in a torrent of personal hell.

Frank's strength ran out and he fell against the wall. He took a quick appraisal of everything at his disposal. /Still semi-upright, that's good. Unable to lift hand to get to my gun, not so good. I'm up shit creek./

Rogue's eyes took in the small room and she sat up, albeit shakily. She still didn't know who she was, still absorbing what memories and skills she received from Frank Castle. She, in other words, thought she was Frank. "Maria?" She croaked. Rogue looked down at her chest, saw that she had a womanly form. Then she noticed who she was supposed to be sitting across from her.

It all snapped into place for her. Who she was. "Ah'm Rogue." She said, hesitantly. "Did you…you touch me?" She already knew the answer, but wanted to know the specifics.

"I did." He said, simply. "You seemed ill."

She scooted closer to him. Her eyes retained the Artic blue of his. "Ah am sorry. Didn't mean ta hurt ya. Ah can't control mah power." Somehow, it was urgent for her to tell him that. She felt as if she had violated his privacy, violated his person, and she hated it.

Rogue's voice was sultry like aged molasses. Her concern for him showed in how she checked him over. She continued to talk to him. "You'll be ok. You didn't touch me long enough for me to do real damage to you."

The Punisher kept an eye on her. His opinion of the situation was that the onus lay on him, not her. Or rather, the blame lay on the priest. Speaking of the priest, Frank's sharp gaze caught him slinking out of the room. "Rogue, stop him!" He barked as she sprang to her feet. She saw, as he did a moment or two before, that the good Father Peter DiMaggio planned to slip out of the room and lock the door. He succeeded. Rogue pounded on the door, furious and desperate to get out.

"Guess what, Punisher," Father Peter DiMaggio called at him through the door. His words were barely audible, but they both heard him. "The Gnuccis are on their way. I'm going to tell them about you and I should get a hefty bonus. You and the demon bitch are going to die." They heard the soft patter of his feet as he ran away, ostensibly to relay the news.


End file.
